I See the Elephant in the Room
by demonkatgurl17
Summary: Derek's POV after watching over Stiles. Takes place during "Raw". 5th in the "Jagged" series.


Disclaimer: This story arc will have human!nice!non-darach! Jennifer, if only to add more feels.

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The low whirr of the elevator's motor filtered in from the far side of the loft and Derek focused on it, listening to every screech and clank as the elevator rose up and up and up and finally shuddered to a stop. Derek heard the doors slide open and the sound of approaching footsteps, but he stayed where he was, sitting beside his bed as Stiles continued to slumber away in it, oblivious to the world around him.

Derek kind of hoped that Stiles would stay asleep, as least for a little while longer. He'd rather they be alone when Stiles finally came to, so that they could talk in private.

Not that Derek really knew what he was going to say to Stiles yet.

He ran his eyes over Stiles, double checking that the teen was still fast asleep, before he stood and walked over to Peter, preventing his uncle from getting any closer to the bed. Hopefully, there was enough distance to keep their conversation from waking Stiles.

"Well?" Derek prompted curtly. He felt jittery having his attention on something else for the first time in several hours.

"_Well_," Peter said as he handed Derek a set of keys, "I think the transmission could use a rebuild in the future, but the Jeep made it here." He cocked his head so that he could see around Derek to the bed. "Still out?"

"Like a light," Derek said wearily, glancing over his shoulder. When he looked back at Peter, he found his uncle staring at him piercingly.

"So why are you _really_ doing this? Taking care of a drugged up teenager? Though I'm a little disappointed, I thought he had the sense to avoid something like this. But that doesn't explain why _you're_ taking on responsibility for someone that isn't pack. Unless you _want _him to be pack?" Peter asked curiously, his eyes darting from the bed to his nephew. "Which I can understand. He'd be an excellent addition, especially since you're down two betas—"

Derek grasped Peter by the front of your shirt, dragging him closer. "I'm. Not. Turning. Him. End of discussion," he growled with finality, releasing Peter.

Sighing, Peter shrugged, looking bored. "Fine. But I think you're overlooking his potential," he relented, his hand half-buried in his pockets.

"He won't have _any_ potential at all if the bite kills him," Derek muttered darkly. He turned so that he could watch Stiles and still see Peter out of the corner of his eye. He was adamant that he wouldn't repeat his mistake with Paige. If Stiles got worse, then Derek would take him to a hospital. He wouldn't compound the problem by mutilating the teen in his sleep.

"Have you done _anything_ besides watch him since you brought him home? Because I'm sure the State of California might have some objections to that," Peter chuckled.

Derek sent his uncle a scowl before turning his attention back to Stiles. "You care about human laws now?" he snarked back. "And no, I've been reading. I've seen dust bunnies that were more interesting than an unconscious teenager."

But that didn't mean that, in his vigilance (and immense boredom), Derek hadn't already studied every inch of what he could see of Stiles's face. He could probably visualize where each and every mole was with his eyes closed, too.

_That_ was why he had rustled up a book to read. He had needed something to take his mind off of Stiles without _completely_ taking his mind off of Stiles—only it hadn't worked very well because whenever the book became too engrossing, he would somehow be reminded that Stiles was lying unconscious in front of him and he would jolt back into reality, frozen with fear until he located Stiles's heartbeat and steady breathing. After half a dozen times of this, Derek had finally tossed the book away and resigned himself to boredom (and inadvertently committing Stiles's face to memory), unwilling to risk the possibility of neglecting Stiles while trying to entertain himself.

"If he asked, would you bite him?"

"What?" Derek's hand clenched around Stiles's keys as he jerked his gaze away from Stiles and pinned his uncle with a disbelieving stare.

"If he _asked_ you," Peter said slowly, carefully enunciating each syllable, "would you bite him?"

Derek faltered, his eyes returning to the prone figure on his bed. "If he wanted it," he said cagily, pocketing Stiles's keys to avoid compressing them into a useless twist of metal in his hand.

But after learning about Stiles's crush tonight and how Stiles had tried to get over it, the chances of the teen coming to him and asking to be part of Derek's pack—to essentially _belong_ to Derek—were slim to none.

Derek tried to ignore how much that thought stung.

It wasn't like he'd intended to hurt Stiles, but his intentions didn't matter when being so blind had damaged things between them and made Stiles's compliance stilted and grudging. The anger in the teen's eyes at The Jungle was fresh in Derek's memory and he wondered how long he had been pushing his luck with Stiles by taking him for granted.

"Why do you ask?" Derek turned his attention back to Peter. Giving the bite was a personal thing and, while it wasn't really taboo to discuss potential recipients, Peter's meddling in changing humans was something that Derek was _particularly_ sensitive to.

And now that meddling was aimed at Stiles.

Derek wanted to know why.

Peter shrugged, looking thoughtful. "Because he lied when he told me no after I offered it to him. I'm just wondering if his answer had less to do with the bite and more to do with the person offering it," he said, smiling mysteriously as he sauntered away. "You'll let me know if anything changes?" he asked, not bothering to wait for an answer as he made his way back to the elevator.

Derek didn't reply, preoccupied by the possibilities in Peter's parting comment, but he did follow his uncle with his hearing until the older man was once again descending in the elevator, leaving Derek alone with Stiles.

The fact that Peter had a long walk to get back to the car he'd left near Scott's house made Derek feel a little better, but it didn't entirely sooth the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach that his uncle knew something that Derek didn't. But Peter was gone and Derek was stuck babysitting an unconscious teenager—even if he wanted to, Derek couldn't chase after his uncle and demand to know the reason behind his all probing questions.

So, for the next several hours, Derek channeled his restlessness into other things: pacing (but always with Stiles in sight), attempting to read his book again (though with the same problem as before, the book left blind spots in his awareness and he would abandon and return to it in intervals when staring at Stiles got too creepy even for _him_), he even worked out as quietly as he could.

The most excitement (aggravation) Derek had was getting a text from Isaac an hour after Peter left, saying that he and Cora had searched in a five-mile radius from the accident site, had even found the deer that had darted out in front of Melissa, but there wasn't a trace of any of the Alpha Pack or their emissary.

And that was that, an anticlimactic ending to a nerve-wracking night.

Melissa gets into a car accident—no foul play.

Stiles gets drugged in a gay club—passes out and sleeps like the dead.

Derek told himself that it could be worse. There could have been two casualties tonight. Unfortunately, that thought did nothing to cheer him up.

He relayed the news to Scott (Derek was so disheartened by the normality of the accident that he simply forwarded Isaac's text) and got a text back a minute later, Scott thanking him for sending him the (empty) search findings and giving an update on his mom's status.

And then nothing.

For _hours_.

Comforting as Stiles's heartbeat was, focusing on its steady rhythm for long periods of time began to lull Derek and he would need to get up periodically to move around, boosting himself aggressively back to alertness after jolting out of the dozes he'd drift into.

Resistance was futile, though, and each slip into unconsciousness seemed deeper than the last—which was why Derek didn't hear the elevator motor start up again, the pulley system squeaking and clattering to life. He had nodded off, stirring only when the elevator had shuddered to a stop, its rusting doors opening with a faint squeal.

Abruptly, he sat up, turning his head back and forth, trying to locate what had woken him.

And that's when he heard footsteps coming closer, their stride quick and purposeful, confident.

Instinctively, Derek rose from the chair and whirled around, shielding Stiles with his own body, only to relax a moment later when he saw who was approaching: Jennifer.

Worried and yet pleased to see her, he jogged over to where she stood by the couch. "What's wrong?" He hadn't expected to see Jennifer until maybe after school (and besides, even when he did expect her, she usually called ahead to let him know she was on the way).

"I'm sorry," Jennifer whispered apologetically, toying absently with the dark blue jacket in her arms that she sometimes wore to ward off the chill of the loft. "I was on my way to school when I realized I'd left my jacket last night. So I figured I'd swung by to pick it up and see how things went with Stiles since I left. I was gonna call, but I didn't want to wake him too soon."

"It's fine," Derek reassured her, glad that nothing was wrong. "I've kept an eye on him all night and so far nothing's changed. He's been out since I brought him here."

He spared a glance over his shoulder to where Stiles lay dead to the world. If the teen didn't come out of it on his own in the next couple of hours, Derek was going to try waking him himself. Stiles's utter silence and stillness was creepy and scared him more that Derek wanted to admit.

Jennifer peered over at the bed, her face drawn with concern and sadness. "I guess he won't be in class today, then. School begins in half an hour."

_Christ, was it almost eight already?_ Derek thought, stunned. It hadn't been long after two that he had first carried Stiles into the loft. Boring as the watch was, time seemed to have trickled by a little faster that he had thought. Where the hell had it gone? All Derek had really done was sit in a chair and stare at an unconscious teenager. Five hours shouldn't have blinked by like that.

Maybe he had dozed more often that he'd realized.

Maybe.

Derek pushed away his uneasiness, it didn't matter now. He shook his head. "No, not today. I doubt Scott will be there either. His mom made it through surgery just fine, but she'll probably be in the hospital for a while. I'll call you if anything changes, okay?"

He reached out and put his hand on her shoulder, rubbing it comfortingly with his thumb in tight circles. Even through her blouse, he could feel the warmth of her skin, could vividly recall its softness, and, unconsciously, he stepped closer, drawn to her.

Tired and emotionally drained, Derek pulled Jennifer into his arms and brushed a light kiss to her lips, the welcome touch of another person driving some of the tension out of his body. He felt her hands, small and gentle, running over him, light and slow as if he were a skittish animal.

And maybe he was.

Sometimes, the responsibility that perpetually hung over his head became too much and he would lash out, push people away. Stiles wasn't normally one he kept an eye on, but the fact was that the teen was another straw on the camel's back—and this camel was walking on shaky legs as it was.

Contact, Derek had realized not too long ago, was a simple thing that would calm him down (even if only a little bit) and strengthen him enough to keep going. And he needed it now before Stiles woke, needed a balm to sooth the frustration that had grown last night so that, hopefully, Derek wouldn't inflict more damage on Stiles than he already had once the teen woke. And so Derek pressed close to Jennifer, allowed himself to get lost in the softness of her lips and the curve of her body, ever mindful of how _fragile_ she was, how breakable. He did his best to be careful with her, falling back on his habitual restraint even though his own body demanded more of an outlet than the pacifying touches it was settling for.

But now wasn't the time or place for that kind of thing, even if Stiles _wasn't_ occupying the bed.

_Stiles_.

Chastising himself for getting distracted from his charge, Derek regretfully broke off the kiss, a smile twitched at his lips at the blush beginning to tint Jennifer's cheeks (it never failed to crop up when he kissed her).

Unfortunately, that same innocence about her also never failed to make guilt twist in his gut for selfishly keeping Jennifer close to him while the Alpha Pack threatened everyone around him.

But every time he would think about pushing her away, of telling her that it was too dangerous for her to be close to him right now, Derek would think about Lydia, and Allison,and_ Stiles_—all the other human's involving themselves with werewolves—and realize what a low blow it would be to throw Jennifer's humanity in her face, especially when he had no intentions of turning her.

Backing away towards the elevator, Jennifer smiled shyly at him and Derek gave her a small one in return, still at odds with himself. She mouthed a 'Bye' at him and turned on her heel, her hips drawing Derek's eyes as they swayed to and fro. The doors shielded her from view as they closed and then the elevator was descending, temporarily carrying her away from the mess that was Derek's life.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Derek dropped his head back to stare helplessly at the ceiling.

Why couldn't his life be simple? He'd kill for five _minutes_ of simplicity.

But at least one thing was going to plan so far: the loft was empty again, save for him and Stiles. Now if only—

Derek's head snapped around to the bed, his hearing focused on the teen's heart rate, faster than it had been since the club. He stared at Stiles intently and then saw it. Movement. And Stiles's breathing had sped up, too. Strangled sleep noises—different from the ones Derek had heard him make earlier—left Stiles's lips, almost actual words, but not quite.

Wary, Derek approached the bed, watching as Stiles twitched more than he had in the past several hours, as though the teen was fighting to get free of the heavy blanket of oblivion he was under.

_Shit_, he thought, feeling overwhelmingly unprepared for Stiles to wake up.

What if he was furious with Derek for driving away the muscled-bound jerk he had been grinding against? Granted, Derek had acted in Stiles's defense, but a horny and irrational teenager may look at the situation completely different, upset that his fun had been cut short (no matter where it had actually been headed).

The air around the bed smelled different, despite having stepped away from it for only a few minutes. A heady tang—arousal—surrounded Stiles, but it was fading quickly (part of a dream maybe?). What was really confusing Derek was the trace of salt on the air. Why would salt be anywhere _near_ the bed?

Stiles's body squirmed more vigorously against the mattress, his toes flexing, his spine contorting in subtle jackknife that Derek unconsciously followed with his eyes, finding himself momentarily fascinated by the flex of Stiles' narrow, almost coltish legs.

Whether it was result from being overtired or ratcheted up from Jennifer's brief visit, Derek didn't know, but something about Stiles' legs reminded him of how Jennifer's legs would also stretch when she was coming to (though her stretches were a lot less pretzel-y). Jennifer's lingering scent on his skin helped rouse memories of mornings where Derek would run his hands down her legs before parting them and—

_No_.

Violently pushing away from that train of thought, Derek shook himself, thanking god that his cock hadn't done more than twitch. Irritated with himself, he turned his attention away from Stiles's legs and was met by Stiles's sleepy brown eyes.

He froze.

Confusion blossomed onto the teen's face. "Um…what are you—" Stiles said, pausing once he got a good look at his surroundings. "What am _I_ doing here?" he asked curiously, no doubt thinking that _this_ was not where he remembered being last.

The lack of outright hate made Derek relax a little, but his ease was soon erased by the realization that he would have to fill in Stiles's blanks. Maybe _all _of them.

Crap.

"You weren't answering Scott's messages," Derek said hesitantly, "so he sent me to find you last night. When I _did _find you, you were three sheets to the wind and grinding against the jerk that spiked your drink."

There. Short and sweet and to the point. Who cared that it glossed over the part where Derek had to kick the jerk's ass and carry Stiles around like his very own life-sized Ken doll? And unless the teen really needed to know, Derek didn't see a reason to share _everything_.

Stiles eyes widened, fully awake and shocked at the update. "_Spiked_—? He slipped something into my drink?" he asked incredulously, stuttering over the words, apparently unconcerned that he was essentially 'outed'.

Had he been 'out' before and Derek just never knew? What _else_ had he missed?

No longer worried about Stiles being upset with him, Derek felt a rush of irritation at how startled and amazed Stiles sounded. What did he think? That being drugged wasn't something that could _happen_ to him? That he could drink and party and do what he wanted without consequence? That the club was filled with people who only wanted to dance and have fun and wouldn't prey on others when their defenses were down?

The naivety in Stiles's face pissed Derek off, even though (for all intents and purposes), Stiles _was_ still a child. But he should know better than this. Derek would have to _teach_ him better.

"Were you there when the bartender poured the drink?" Derek asked, doing his best to keep a neutral tone regardless of how much he wanted to yell at the teen. _Yelling will only make things worse_, he told himself.

"No, he already had it in his hand when he walked up," Stiles said, his guilty expression telling Derek that the teen was competent enough (at least while sober) to know where he'd went wrong.

That didn't mean that Derek wasn't going to drive that point home, though. "And you took it anyway?"

Stiles brought his hands up to cover his eyes, rubbing at them, and Derek wondered if it was just a pretense so that Stiles could hide from him. "It was _alcohol_, dude. It's not like I would have gotten drunk any other way. It's kind of illegal to serve to minors," Stiles said, his voice on the edge of whining.

Derek huffed, irritated.

Teenagers.

They never considered that _maybe_ the rules were there for a damn good reason: to protect kids from themselves when all they wanted to do was get high or get off, or to protect them from creeps like Tall, Dark, and Muscled that actual adults _had_ to deal with.

"Did you get his name?" Derek asked, hoping that Stiles knew at least _that_ much. As mad as he was with Stiles, it wasn't like the teen had _asked_ to be drugged. Tall, Dark, and Muscled had probably done this sort of thing before and was likely to do it again, despite being thrown out of the club last night. If Derek ever saw the asshole again…

"Uh, if I did, I don't remember it. Though, I wasn't really there to make new friends," Stiles sulked.

Derek was rather glad that Stiles's eyes were covered because shame and guilt had hit him hard, twisting his face into a grimace at the offhand reminder that all of this had happened to Stiles because _Derek_ had dropped the ball, because Derek had let Stiles down _long_ before Tall, Dark, and Muscled had walked up to the teen with that damn drink.

Thankfully, Derek managed to pull his own features back under a mask of control by the time Stiles dropped his arms away from his face. Stiles didn't need any clues that Derek was aware of why the teen had gone to The Jungle in the first place.

"Did you say that Scott sent you to get me? Why didn't Scott come himself?" Stiles asked him gruffly after a few moments of silence (Derek didn't call the teen on his petulance: he was probably the last person Stiles had wanted to find him like that). It was transparent that Stiles was changing the subject, but—grateful as Derek was to have his mistakes out of his face— he felt even worse about having to shed light on the McCall's misfortune.

Looks he was the bearer of all kinds of bad news today.

He ran a hand through his hair, stroking through it absently as he tried to find a way to tell Stiles that his best friend's mom had been seriously hurt while he'd been out partying at a club.

"Scott's mom was in an accident last night," Derek said tentatively, his tone as steady as possible even as he re-lived that moment of terror when he'd received Scott's text. "A deer ran out in front of her on her way to work and she drove her car into a tree trying to avoid it. She was in surgery for internal bleeding, but Scott said she made it through just fine. She's in the hospital resting. Scott's there with her and has been most of the night. That's why he sent me to find you when you weren't answering. He—_we_," Derek hastily corrected, "thought that maybe the Alpha Pack was striking out at the humans close to us."

The news seemed to shock Stiles to the core. Wide-eyed and white as a sheet, the teen sat up and drew his legs under him, his torso bending over them. Curled up on himself, Stiles looked small for a kid that actually stood about six foot tall.

"She's okay?" Stiles asked faintly once he'd processed the information.

_At least he's not crying_, Derek thought with relief. He didn't know if he could handle crying right now, he was so tired. He moved to sit in the chair, done with projecting a rigid, imposing stance. It wasn't needed here.

His arms crossed over his chest, Derek nodded. "She'll be there for a few days, at least, but she's fine," he said solemnly. "I think the worst of it is that the deer running across the road _was_ random. I had Isaac and Cora search the area for signs of the Alpha Pack. They even tracked down the deer. Nothing. Not one scent of the Alphas or even their emissary was anywhere near the scene. I don't know whether to be glad or disappointed that the accident was just an accident."

A sad smile pulled at Stiles's lips as he sat on the bed, silently absorbing the newest wave of bad luck to come into their midst.

Giving in to his exhaustion, Derek groaned as he leaned forward to brace himself on his knees, letting his eyes drift shut as his head drooped between his shoulders.

Fuck, it was just one thing after another lately. Ever since he'd come back to Beacon Hills, it seemed like his problems multiplied with every solution he found. He was getting to the point of being done with it all, tired of fighting and fighting and coming up with less than what he'd went in with.

Erica was gone. Boyd was gone. Isaac seemed trapped in the middle between him and Scott, which worried him more than he'd like to admit. On a good day, Derek wasn't sure if he could rely on Peter (that didn't stop him from repeatedly taking his uncle's advice, though, desperate as he was for guidance of any kind). Cora…a small, pessimistic part of Derek doubted his little sister's allegiance, too, as sad as that was—not that he blamed her after essentially being left behind. Scott was there for him when he needed it, but ultimately he wasn't pack.

Oddly enough, the one person outside of his pack that Derek had consistently relied on was Stiles, but now that Derek's blinders had been torn off, he could see just how fragile his connection was to the teen. Worry ate at him as he wondered if there was time enough left to repair the damage Derek had done before Stiles severed things between him and Derek's pack for good.

"Um," Stiles said, drawing Derek out of his melancholy thoughts (he'd practically forgotten that the teen was even there).

"Hmm?" Derek hummed, not quite ready to rise completely out of his rare indulgence in self-pity, wanting to wallow in his sorrow for a moment longer before he was forced to steel his spine and carry on once again, to try to live up to his last name (with varying degrees of failure).

"Do you always have a chair next to your bed?" Stiles asked timidly.

Leave it to Stiles to see the details that others would ignore—details that Derek had hoped _Stiles_ would ignore. He raised his head so that he could look Stiles in the eye, like he had nothing to hide.

_There _wasn't_ anything to hide. _

"No. Just last night," Derek said, his voice carefully giving none of his emotions away.

"You brought me here after you found me at the club and you…watched over me?" Stiles asked, his head slightly cocked to the side as he looked at Derek curiosity and…hope?

Derek looked away to study the creases and rolls in the coverlet, uncomfortable with how probing Stiles's question felt.

"It wasn't safe to leave you alone," he said, his said neutrally. "You were drunk and you'd been drugged. With your luck, you'd have drowned in your own vomit. Or spit," he said, his gaze narrowing on the pillow Stiles had drooled on for several hours. God, it would _smell_ like him if he didn't wash it. The bedclothes, too, now that he thought of it. Not that it mattered, but any werewolf who came near the bed would be able to smell three distinct scents (maybe he should see about doing laundry when Stiles left).

At Stiles's inquiring expression, Derek shook his head dismissively. Stiles didn't need to worry about what the pack might think about Derek's dirty laundry.

"Y'know, most people are taken to the hospital when they're drugged," Stiles said, helpfully pointing out what both Jennifer and Peter had already suggested hours ago.

It made Derek's temper flare a little.

"Yeah well, most people aren't in danger of being killed by a pack of Alphas," he snarked back, more than aware that while his actions may not have been the safest medically for Stiles, they _had_ been the safest precaution in case the Alpha Pack had wanted to take advantage of Stiles's helplessness, and it was wearing at him that no one wanted to acknowledge that possibility.

Irritated, he straightened back up, his arms crossed defensively over his chest.

"It's fine," Stiles said, shrugging, unruffled by Derek's dig. "You would probably know if something was wrong, like, way before a human would so…it's cool. So, uh, did you…did you watch me, like, _all_ night?" he asked haltingly, his eyes filled with an unreadable emotion that seemed to make his heart beat faster.

Derek had a good idea of what it was, though.

Now that he knew about Stiles's crush on him, Derek could pick out the subtle cues that he had been overlooking: the constant low-grade arousal, the occasional outbreak of blushing and stammering, the roving eyes, racing heart and shortened breath—signs that Stiles was currently exhibiting.

Derek looked away, uneasy.

He'd hurt Stiles by ignoring his all this and had nearly driven him away completely, but how was Derek going to bring Stiles back into the fold without creating more misunderstandings? Without leading him on and hurting him even more?

Maybe there _was_ no fool proof way. 'You can't have your cake and eat it too', wasn't that the old saying? But nothing had been pain free lately, not for any of them, so trying to make things less dysfunctional between him and Stiles couldn't be any worse than leaving the situation be. Could it?

Worse comes to worst, he'll drive away what he was already losing.

"You were in danger," Derek finally said with a shrug, trying to make it sound like it was a normal thing to do and not a _pack_ thing (even if it _was_ a pack thing). "There was no one else available that I trusted to do it so _I_ did it. It wasn't a big deal." He grimaced as he stared at the coverlet, hating how he was coming off so blasé.

"Well, uh, thanks for being my last resort," Stiles muttered seemingly offhand.

Startled by how backhanded gratitude, Derek looked up. "That's not what I meant. You're—," _important to me_, he wanted to say, but that would only mangle what he meant. Derek wavered for a moment, frustrated. "Look, whether I like it or not, you're in this as well, and you've helped me and mine out without asking for anything in return. _This_ is my return. You deserve to be protected, too."

Mouth hanging open, Stiles stared at him in amazement, as though Derek had been replaced by some kind of alien doppelganger. And, okay, maybe it was weird for Derek to be so blandly honest, but he meant every word. He almost wished Stiles was like him if only so he could hear the steadiness of Derek's heartbeat.

"Thanks," Stiles whispered, flashing Derek a shy smile, a happier one than his last, and it made Derek relax a bit, feeling like he'd just accomplished something. It wasn't often that he _ever_ saw the teen smile and to have one aimed at Derek seemed inexplicably monumental.

Stiles's smile soon soured as his face scrunched in a grimace and he began to shift towards the edge of the bed. "Hey, uh, do you mind if I use your bathroom for a second? That rum and coke I had last night wants out of my system, like ASAP."

Realizing that Stiles intended to get off the bed, Derek sprang to his feet, getting closer than was probably necessary. "Do you need help?" It had been at least seven or eight hours since the drug had entered the teen's system and, while he'd been talking and sitting up just fine, walking might be a different story.

Perched at the edge of the bed, Stiles looked up at him with a cheeky grin. "What? Are you offering to help me aim?"

Gaping, an image sprang to Derek's mind of doing just that, standing behind Stiles and holding him up with an arm around the teen's chest while his other hand was wrapped around Stiles's co—

No, no, _no_. He shut down that line of thought immediately, feeling himself flush (and thankfully _only_ flush) at the scenario. Christ, his need for sleep was starting to make all kinds of lines blur. If he wasn't careful, he was going to end up embarrassing himself.

Looking vaguely disappointed at Derek's lack of comeback, Stiles slid off the bed and stood. "I'm _kidding_, dude. Jeez," he muttered, half under his breath. He wobbled on his feet and Derek gripped his elbow to steady him, guiding his progress across the loft to the bathroom door.

"Well, unless you plan on helping me shake, I think I've got it from here," Stiles quipped, watching Derek's face closely for a response.

Belatedly prepared for Stiles's raunchiness, Derek merely let the teen go and gave him some space, his arms crossed to show that he wasn't amused by the jokes. Derek was determined to keep his mind from wandering into dangerous territory again, so he stared sternly at Stiles, hoping that there was some latent fear of him within the teen. He supposed there was since Stiles hastily staggered into the bathroom and practically slammed the door behind him.

While Stiles went about his business, Derek concentrated on studying the whorl patterns of the wooden door, resolutely keeping his hearing at human levels to avoid adding any realism to the scene his imagination had drummed up. He felt guilty enough that his mind had gone _that_ far anyway.

He _really_ needed sleep.

He was eyeing a particularly dark spot near the topmost hinge when the door swung open and Stiles marched out, drawing up short at the sight of Derek. "What the—? _Seriously?_ I can't even _pee_ by myself?" Stiles whined indignantly, his feathers ruffled by the Alpha's supervision.

For a moment, Derek could have sworn he smelled arousal on the teen, but it was there and gone so quickly that he didn't give it much thought. His curiosity was swiftly overridden by annoyance as Stiles (once again) seemed oblivious to his own vulnerability. "I was making sure you didn't collapse and brain yourself on the toilet," he growled at the puffed up teenager.

"Dude, I'm _fine_. Look, see?" Stiles said exasperatedly. He made an ungainly twirl and came to a stop facing Derek. He rocked slightly on his feet, but he didn't fall.

Frowning, Derek stared at him, half wishing that Stiles _had _fallen. Happy as he was that there seemed to be no lasting effects from the drugs, he still felt like Stiles was getting off too easily after voluntarily putting himself in danger. As it was, he doubted that Stiles truly understood just how lucky he was to be _fine_ when so many awful things could have happened to him last night.

But Derek wasn't Stiles's dad. He couldn't make the teen listen if he didn't want to so Derek settled for biting his tongue, floundering for something to fill the silence with, only Stiles beat him to it.

"I guess I should get going. See how Scott and his mom are doing," Stiles said softly, looking unsure and rather dejected.

Derek hated that look. He wanted to drive away whatever had transformed the smiling, sarcastic Stiles into this despondent shell, but he couldn't think of anything, too thrown by the change in mood.

Suddenly, Stiles started off towards the elevator, getting a few paces away before he glanced down at his bare feet, realizing that he wasn't quite dressed yet. He turned back to Derek, who stood frozen in concern, wondering if Stiles really _was_ in any condition to leave if he was too scatterbrained to notice that he was barefoot.

"Hey, uh...where are my socks and shoes?" Stiles asked, bemused, like it wasn't the first time he'd tried to go somewhere half dressed.

_Not his father_, Derek reminded himself firmly as he nodded back at the bed. He followed Stiles to the other side of the loft and watched the teen search for his missing shoes and socks.

"Did I kick them off?" Stiles asked absently just before he found his things. Picking up his shoes, he stared at the untied laces blankly before looking up Derek, confused.

"I took them off for you," Derek muttered, embarrassed at having to admit that he had taken an article of clothing off of Stiles, innocent though it was. "No one likes to sleep in shoes."

Stiles laughed softly. "Thanks," he said, sitting down on the bed to put on his socks and shoes. Stiles had just finished lacing up his last shoe when he unexpectedly tensed, then groaned as he fell backwards limply onto the bed. "_Craaaap!_ I got a ride to the club with Danny," he whined, Stiles's memory apparently catching up with him.

Rolling his eyes at the melodramatics, Derek fished Stiles's keys out of his pocket and tossed them at the wallowing teen, allowing himself to enjoy a sliver of satisfaction when they landed on Stiles's belly, startling him.

"What—?"

"I asked Peter to bring over your Jeep a few hours ago," Derek explained placidly, shoving his hands in his pockets, needing to do _something _with them after giving Stiles's freedom back. Standing and doing nothing was starting to make him antsy. "I figured that since Scott was your cover story then that's where you'd have parked it—and it was. I fished your keys out of your pocket and Peter used them to bring your Jeep here."

Peter may have moaned and sulked at having to retrieve the Jeep in the middle of the night, but at least he'd done as Derek had asked (he even got to needle Derek for information, so it was a win for both of them, actually).

"Peter?" Stiles asked anxiously, "Why Peter?" Absently, he clutched at his keys, seeming horrified that someone else had driven his beloved Jeep (or maybe just because it had been Peter).

"Because I know Peter can _drive_ it," Derek said patiently, suppressing his irritation. It wasn't _Derek's_ fault that no one else could do it, but under the circumstances, he'd been thrilled at having one less thing to worry about. "Isaac doesn't know how to drive stick very well and I have no idea about Cora. _And_ he was available."

Stiles silently accepted the reality of the situation and let the issue drop. Looking pensive, he sat up properly on the bed, playing with his keys for a moment before he stood with sigh. "Okay, well…I guess tell him thanks for dropping it off. And thank you," Stiles gestured at Derek with a casual wave of his hand, "y'know, for picking me up and keeping an eye on me. It means a lot."

Stiles moved to step around Derek, to leave, and Derek found himself moving of his own accord, his hand reaching out to grip Stiles by the arm. "Come to the next pack meeting," he said, the words mindlessly falling from his lips.

Dazed, Stiles stared at Derek "What?"

He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice stuck in his throat for some reason when he watched Stiles lick his lips, his quick, little tongue moistening them with spit, the same spittle that covered Derek's pillow and unintentionally mingled Stiles and Derek's scents together. Derek gazed distractedly at Stiles's mouth, struck by the unhelpful thought that the teen's lips looked exactly like Jennifer's, their pink a little darker than hers, but—

He shook his head, banishing more unwanted thoughts as he brought his searching gaze back to Stiles's startled eyes. "You don't come around anymore when we're making plans," Derek said, finally admitting that there was an elephant in the room, but not outright addressing it. "Don't— You should start coming to them again. We could use your input, and not just by you going through Scott. I might not like having to drag everyone into this, but… we need to work together if we want to end this. We need you."

_'I need you' _was what he meant, but he couldn't say that, couldn't use words that had double meaning, especially for Stiles. Derek wouldn't bind the teen to him with false hopes and mindless insinuations, not when they weren't so mindless anymore. The blinders were off and they were staying off. Derek would have to try twice as hard to get back to the even footing they had been on once before, but he needed to try and he couldn't do that if Stiles avoided him like the plague.

He needed Stiles to come back to the meetings, to give him a chance to fix this before _everyone_ lost Stiles, all because of _him_.

He needed Stiles to come back.

But Stiles…something was wrong with Stiles. He wasn't making eye contact anymore, his gaze fixed on the floor away from Derek.

"Stiles?" Derek asked, trying to get the teen's attention but getting nothing, like Stiles wasn't even there.

"Stiles?" he tried again, a little louder, hoping to jar him out of his head, back to reality, to fucking respond at _all_.

"I need to—" Stiles whispered, his voice frail and small before it trailed off into silence.

His worry heightened, Derek opened up all of his senses to Stiles, needing an indication of what was _wrong_, and was inundated with the bitter scent of sorrow, the tang of sweat, and the saltiness of the tears that clung to Stiles's lashes. And the noise— Stiles's heart—deafeningly loud and pounding faster and faster, echoed in Derek's head and pushed out every other thought but for the quick-time drumming inside the teen less than a foot away from him.

"_Stiles!"_ Derek shouted, trying to be heard over the pounding of the teen's heart, his ears filled with its sound to the point of pain.

He must have gotten through to Stiles because a moment later the teen tore out of his grip, leaving Derek behind to try to get his breathing back to normal, feeling like he'd just ran for miles and miles despite not having moved a muscle. He was barely aware of Stiles shouting at him, promising to be at the next meeting, and then Stiles was gone, down the elevator and driving away before Derek had managed to wrestle his senses back under control.

Driven past the brink of exhaustion, Derek staggered the last few steps to the bed and collapsed on it, feeling empty and weak. He didn't bother fighting the sleep that dragged at him, pulling him down, down, down. He only buried his face in a cool pillow, letting the comforting scent on it usher him into darkness.

He wouldn't realize until he woke hours later that the pillow was his own, Stiles's scent on it as strong as if he'd never left.


End file.
